I grew up among the mountains. Their presence kept my overly ambitious heart peacefully contained, helped me find my bearings and covered my home in a cozy blanket of clouds in the winter. They stood silently and witnessed the important parts of my life, as I discovered the pieces of myself that only age reveals. They reminded me that I was small, in a humbling, comforting, and necessary way. I never desired to see the face of God, because I could roam among the works of his hands and that was more than enough for me.
Years after leaving the mountains, the dull ache that accompanies their absence hasn't faded as I hoped it would. When I am gripped with homesickness, it is not only for those that I love, but also for the places I love, and the places that loved me. The mountains have a way of helping you make sense of yourself, and without their quiet bodies to guard me, I occasionally find myself painfully exposed and unable to find my bearings.
I grew up among the mountains. They kept me grounded, and made me brave. They were the quietly perfect backdrop to my beginning. And though my heart is stretched to breaking, I know that they wait for me patiently, answers in hand.